


take another drag, turn me to ashes

by orphan_account



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Drug Withdrawal, F/F, Genderbending, Implied Sexual Content, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7859830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when she smiles, your lungs are clouded with adoration. you can’t fucking breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take another drag, turn me to ashes

**Author's Note:**

> this is dedicated to nailingtrent(an incredibly talented artist) and inspired by their female trent reznor/marilyn manson artwork

the first time you make love to her is in your home state, with the cheap neon lights from the motel opposite yours dancing across her pale skin, her eyes closed but still looking right through you. you long to see what she sees behind her eyes, a roaring fire, a star constellation, another face, nothing. that’s always the way it is with tamara reznor, isn’t it? a card trick, a sleight of hand, an escape act.

she always pushes and pushes and pushes and you never say no. you’d rather be smothered by her than breathe more freely.

that doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

***

her sweet hazel eyes[she herself is not so sweet, she’s cool and bold and full of rage like you and you wouldn’t have her any other way] blink one-two with your heart, it’s 2am and it’s freezing cold, you’re eating cheap junk food and there is nowhere in the world you’d rather be. tamara doesn’t seem to be in a rush either, even though she always is normally, even when sleeping, like the weight of the things she hasn’t done and the lives she hasn’t lived are crushing her.

she takes your hand in hers and presses it to her lips, her smile a wicked thing. she could wither and sag and fade and you could never deny her anything.

you follow her to the bedroom without a word and fall to your knees, ready to confess to everything.

***

the thing with tamara is, when things are great, they are perfect and they erase everything bad, they make you everything you want to be and more. you hold her as she shakes, body drenched in sweat and press reverent kisses to her forehead.

“you’re going to be alright, tam. we’re going to beat this together.” _you have to be alright, tam. i can’t beat it without you._

you are resentful even if you don’t have a reason to be, even if you don’t have the right to be. _am i not enough? do you need to inject yourself with garbage and fill your veins with poison? why don’t you see what others see, that i’m a junkie that’s a bad example and a mindfuck and that you should get away from me?_

you two enable each other and fuck with each other but stay together because you’d much rather have difficult with her than easy with someone else. tamara turns to you, the roaring fire in her eyes a mere flicker of light, dim and not hopeful and decaying.

and she smiles. it makes up for the wailing sirens outside and all those times she’d tear entire rooms down with her bare hands in a drug and pain haze and stop mere inches from you[she could hurt anyone except you, never you] until you take her in your arms, fix up her bleeding hands, paint her nails, brush her hair and kiss the faded freckles on the bridge of her nose.

she smiles, your lungs are clouded with adoration.

_you can’t fucking breathe._

***

it takes at least a year for things to go the way they were meant to.

you rarely wake up screaming, dreaming of granddad and his cellar[he’s been dead for years and you’re still afraid that he’ll find out you’ve been there] or waking up as brianna the lowly journalist, with tamara reznor sitting across from you, chewing on her nail as she answers your questions as if she’d much rather be anywhere else.

tamara rarely flinches when you take her hand in public or in front of your father and has no objections when you kiss her in front of your bandmates. they take it pretty well, some ask the usual dumb questions[‘who is the man in the relationship, brianna?’; ‘how do you really have sex?’] but you can’t be mad at them for too long because they are the first to accept it, as if you dating your producer is something not out of the ordinary and when you remember you’ve burned bibles on stage and smoked human bones, you can’t help but agree with that sentiment.

others in the industry are also pretty positive, tori comes over with a housewarming gift and you can no longer hate her even though tamara used to have a serious crush on her, something you love to tease her about, courtney is snarky about it but then courtney is snarky about everything so you don’t mind, fred durst is still someone who makes bad music but he calls out some other minor nu-metal jerk who has a certain bigoted lyric about your relationship so you guess he’s not that bad of a guy.

the right-wing, religion obsessed media have a field day but you don’t give them a satisfaction of being angry because you’re too busy kissing your girlfriend in front of their cameras. you still think it’s hypocritical that out of all the things you’ve done[flashing on stage, burning bibles, setting the American flag on fire], it takes you falling in love with a woman to really send them over the edge.

your father no longer hopes and prays you’re going to leave this “phase” and find “the right guy”. instead he says he has two daughters now and that he's happy tamara keeps you grounded. he still sometimes looks at you too hard, like he’s trying to analyze the inside of your head but hey, it’s a start.

***

not to sugarcoat, there are still some days when you itch for just a line, just a drink, just a taste of the underworld pleasures and there are still some days when tamara is locked inside her studio and she works and plays and sings until all the anger and depression has filtered itself out of her system.

“come here, short one.”

“not my fault you are a human beanstalk.”

you wrap your arms around her and pull her closer as you lay on the bed, burying your face in her dark hair, smelling of the lemon scented shampoo she uses and home. your legs are tangled, it’s getting too hot and your lungs ache with love.

_you’ve never breathed easier._


End file.
